Undercover
by CalicoKitty17
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Mycroft really does worry about his little brother, so he borrows an MI6 spy to keep an eye on him. Possible OOCness


The meeting was set for 5 in the evening, but Mycroft Holmes arrived at approximately 4:30, choosing a booth in the corner that gave him a good view of everybody else. It also provided good protection, since nobody could sneak up on you if you were sitting against a wall, and a quick escape in the form of an emergency exit no less than ten feet away. A little paranoid, maybe, but he hadn't lived this long being reckless.

A waitress, pretty, petite, and blond, took his order and bounced over to the counter to tell the barista. The place was busier than usual, and the barista had employed his girlfriend, the waitress, temporarily since a few other workers were out sick. She wrote everything down and continuously checked her notes, so she wasn't used to the job, and when she walked away from the counter she swung her hips playfully, catching her boyfriend's attention. There were a thousand little tells that painted an obvious picture, invisible to nearly everyone else.

The bell above the door rang, drawing his attention briefly to a smiling teenager. Schoolboy. Visiting from another town. Plays sports. Part-time mechanic. At least one parent deceased.

Mycroft looked away, but those ten seconds had been more than enough to figure out plenty about the boy without ever saying a word.

The waitress returned with a steaming cup of tea and scones, an English stereotype, but only because they had good taste.

The bell dinged again. Woman. Mid-thirties. Secretary. Likes to read. Loves her husband. Two kids.

He turned his gaze back to his food, switching off any further deductions about the woman. It was an annoying trait that he had long since resigned himself to, and he was sure almost anyone would welcome such a gift, but sometimes he wanted to have to talk to somebody before he knew everything about them.

A shadow fell across the table and he glanced up at the schoolboy who had entered the cafe a few minutes ago. A pair of sparkling green eyes met his and the boy offered an award-winning smile. "Hi, can I sit here?" He asked politely.

Mycroft frowned warily. "Somebody else is coming to meet me."

"I won't be here long." The boy assured.

Tilting his head in consent, Mycroft watched the teen slide into the booth, completely at ease and ignorant of the dangers that sitting with his back presented to everybody caused like only someone of his youth could. He panned his gaze around the cafe, noting that every table in the place was currently occupied, and then his attention returned to the boy.

He was holding a cup of hot chocolate and took a quick swig before setting it back down and leaning forward, grinning. "So, wanna exchange names?"

"Why would I want to do that?" Mycroft asked coolly.

The boy shrugged. "Thought you looked a bit tense, figured I'd break the ice."

Something was off. He scrutinized the boy carefully and said doubtfully, "Are you hitting on me?"

There was a moment of stunned silence and the teen stared at him, gaping in astonishment. Then he broke into peals of laughter, clutching at his sides and doubling over to lay his forehead on the table. People looked up, curious and Mycroft scowled, fighting a flush. This was severely out of character, but he wasn't used to making such an, apparently huge, miscalculation. That was embarrassing, and the boy just made it worse, pounding his hand on the table until his hysterics calmed into amused chuckles several long minutes later.

The boy, approximately fifteen years old, eventually quieted completely and swept a strand of brown hair out of his face. "No," he managed, obviously trying to fight back the laughter again. "I am most definitely not hitting on you. But thanks, I haven't laughed like that in a long time."

Mycroft stilled, pieces of the puzzle clicking together in his mind that he would have found sooner, if they'd hadn't been repelled like two positive magnetic reactions that wanted to fit, but simply couldn't. He checked his watch. He looked to the door, and scanned every customer, then sighed in resignation. The teen just took another drink from his hot chocolate, still appearing as if the whole thing was simply hilarious.

From the boy's view point, it probably was. "You're the person I'm supposed to meet?" He guessed.

"It took you long enough," the boy replied snidely. "I was told you were some kind of big deal in the government, guess I was either told wrong or we're in a lot more trouble than I thought."

"You're not making a very good first impression." Mycroft pointed out.

"Hey, I tried, you're the one who didn't even bother to introduce himself."

The Holmes didn't glare. Or glower. Or think violent thoughts. But he couldn't help but notice that if he wasn't as smart as he was he would have been led into a trap. He could guess how the conversation would have went.

"How was I supposed to know you're the person I was meeting?" A lesser man would have asked indignantly.

"You're a major part of the British government, how would you not know?"

Thus, a carefully made trap would have been sprung. Now that it hadn't, the boy would probably realize his intelligence wasn't completely fabricated and adjust accordingly.

He was clever, for sure.

"Alright, you've made your point. So what is your name?"

"Alex, and for the sake of the assignment my last name will be Johnson. I was told you're Mycroft Holmes?"

"Indeed, have you been told the details of your assignment?"

"Not directly, but I've gathered it's a protection detail of sorts for somebody who doesn't want it and isn't supposed to know about it."

"You're correct. My little brother, Sherlock, is quite a handful and quite adept at dodging me whenever he strikes up the motivation. It's getting a bit annoying, actually, and I need a more reliable source of information."

"That's where I come in." Alex said, frowning slightly. "A glorified guard dog for an overprotective brother?"

"Hardly. Sherlock is very prone to ending up in dangerous situations and I would appreciate a bit of extra insurance that he'll survive the next time he gets in over his head. I'm afraid that is all that I will tell you at this moment. I don't know you well enough to trust you, or your abilities, so further details will depend on your own observations."

"Do I get an address, at least?"

"221 Baker Street. It's not far from here. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another engagement to see to. I'll be in touch." Calmly, Mycroft stood from his seat and dropped a few notes on the table, enough to pay for both of them, and walked away, leaving the teen to his thoughts, and immersing himself in his own.

Mycroft wasn't sure whether he should be angry or not. He had called in a favor Alan Blunt, head of MI6, owed him requesting an agent indefinitely. He had expected a lot of things, a grizzled soldier, a plain, unassuming man, even a seductress, but he had been fairly certain Alan would send him a second-rate agent that would be relatively easy to identify. He had been prepared to dismiss them entirely and up the pressure to get a competent agent.

Instead, Blunt sent him a child who was good with word games. If Alex was talented in any kind of martial arts or weapon, than he couldn't tell, which meant he was exceptional at going undercover; he might just be an agent that Sherlock wouldn't be able to make. But if Alex was truly just a rookie whose only talent was manipulation, then his brother would suffer for it.

...Maybe this required a little test to ensure the agent was good for the job and it also needed a thorough background check.

After all, he hadn't survived this long being reckless.


End file.
